


Kijin

by knifewingo



Category: Naruto
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 08:05:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14444943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifewingo/pseuds/knifewingo
Summary: In the wake of a vicious battle - Zabuza comes to realise he's far better at killing than at knowing himself and his feelings. Perhaps he's less okay with that than he's always liked to think.





	1. Chapter 1

Zabuza watches the shadows in the doorway with sharpened eyes. He’s not accustomed to shame, and even though it twists in his gut he’s trying his best to ignore it, even now. Shame, guilt. Haku’s muffled yelp of surprise flashes again and again in his noisy, blood soaked mind. He rubs his brow with the flat of his hand like he might erase it, scrunches his eyes blindingly tight. Can’t breathe without wanting to yell, tear out his heart in frustration. 

He tastes the blood all over again, sleek against his tongue - and then Haku’s lips, so soft and supple beneath his, the anvil of his brazen desires. How many had he cut down without so much as a blink - their bodies surrounded them - and he had felt so fragile in Zabuza’s hands. Blood drunk, those fleeting moments, those careful touches and seconds of intimacy had caught up to him, and he’d kissed Haku before he’d even had chance to think about it. Hard, messy, greedy. He’d never seen him so flustered, so shaken, so lost for words. 

And now, he sits, stewing in regret, in frustration.

In _shame_. 

He won’t apologise though. No matter how much he wants to.

He isn’t sure how long he’s waited - his blade still gleams ruby raw in the shadows - the dew of blood and the spring’s gentle steam. The futon beneath him is strangely firm - he’s so used to sleeping on floors now that the softness throws him off. He’s restless at the best of times - and now, he doesn’t even know of his bedmate will look at him, let alone lay with him. He didn’t think - he’d ever be this anxious about not having someone to hold. 

When Haku’s shape appears in the doorway - his kimono, ultramarine sapphire - he always looks so _good_ in blue. Divine. Zabuza must have told him so, before - mustn’t he? - he closes his knees, drops his wrapped hands into his lap like a scolded child. It’s a challenge to avert his eyes - he feels he has to, but so desperately doesn’t want to. The silk hangs loosely over Haku’s body, and his midnight hair falls like slick velvet over his bare shoulders. The water has kissed his pale skin, rose warmth blossoms like spring beneath it. Already his bruises have faded and his body - as ever - is untouched. Only the faint lines of forgotten scars, that gleam gently in the fading sunlight. 

Haku measures him from the doorway, his silver eyes somewhere between parched curiosity and complete dispassion. When Zabuza catches the mirror of them he sees himself as he always has - as the world always has - violent, cruel, repulsive. He scratches his head and searches for something to say - anything, anything to break this stifling silence. 

Haku closes the space between them silently - his bare feet whisper only faintly on the floorboards. Zabuza looks up - his eyes follow the shadows of his ribs, his collarbones, the grooves and ridges of his throat, his elegant jawline - he murmurs, so softly, an animal noise, and his rough fingers absentmindedly rub the hem of Haku’s robe. He smells - ethereal - rose water and patchouli - as cool as the ice the shrouds him. It stokes the furnace at Zabuza’s core - so much that when Haku’s knuckles smooth his cheekbone he shies away from his touch. If he looked up, he might even have caught the flash of hurt in Haku’s eyes.

“Don’t you want me, Kijin?”

That name - more his than the one his mother gave him - he’d heard it countless times. Screamed in horror, roared in fury - whispered in shaken tongues with hushed, fearful reverence. Salt and rust and rage. As harsh as a snapping whip, as soft as a broken plea. Never from him. It bowed the strings of Haku’s voice, the most harmonious lullaby. Kijin. Honey, swirled into crystal tea in the shade of a knotted cherry tree. As gentle as first snow. 

Zabuza’s throat tightens - his lips part, just faintly - enough that he feels his hot breath rush from them. His eyes are wide, his heart thundering against his chest, fists on the walls of a burning building. Haku’s cool fingers line his jaw, the shadow of gritty stubble, like the finest ink brush. His skin blazes where Haku’s touch leaves it. Index finger below his chin, Zabuza’s teeth meet with a quiet click. The corner of Haku’s mouth curls, just a little - that waver of emotion even he can’t hide from this masterful performance. Zabuza might as well be shackled - his limbs have turned to lead, and he sinks, drowns in the vast river of Haku’s scent, his voice, his skin. Haku’s red lips are a sliver from his - he tastes his breath, sweet and soothing.

Demon, they call him - for the first time he doubts it. What demon could stand the swirl of Haku’s prefect purity?

Haku’s other hand traces the rough briar of Zabuza’s inner thigh and he moans, shudders, like Haku has slipped a blade between his ribs.

Don’t you want me? The words echo in his head, loud as his ravenous pulse.

Zabuza doesn’t even have the strength to answer.


	2. Chapter 2

He expects Haku to reel from him when their lips meet. He's slow, as he moves over his protege- but his kiss is far from gentle. Firm, but not demanding - somehow more of a request than an order. With enough force and heat that, Zabuza hopes, he'll think better than to move away. The Demon - he isn't used to being refused; though to be fair, he isn't used to asking either. This has never been at the forefront of his mind before, muted beneath the white noise of spilled blood and broken bone. Singing blades and aching fists. But now - the urge, the desire has caught up to him. He's made his move before he's given more than a glance towards the thought of rejection. Haku's lips open beneath his slightly - soft and sweet beneath his, dry and cracked like summer earth, his breath is cool where Zabuza's burns. Neither have shaven for days but Haku's lotus jaw is smooth beneath his coarse, square fingertips. Sharp nails graze his throat, points of frost that elegantly alight his nerves, trace his racing pulse. Zabuza grunts bluntly, presses him deeper into the silken cushions. Beneath his huge body Haku seems so fragile - So distant from the river of blood they've spilled together. The same fire that stokes him, that consumes him like lightning takes an arid forest when he fights Spurs him now - and Haku, as ever, moulds to his whim, his demands, like molten silver. Calm, kind, gracious. Haku is everything he's not. Zabuza would hate him, if he didn't -   
Need him? All of his life Zabuza had felled men like rain dissolved winter snow. Haku was - a novelty. A toy. A pet. An extension of his own skill, his prowess. Only as valuable as his cruel sword. But when Haku killed - with him, for him, to protect him - it filled him with something that might have been pride.   
Covet him? Like an antiquity, or a rare delicate flower. He carried each of his possessions on his back. That this one slept at his side and tended his wounds hardly made a difference.   
Still, he can't rationalise the rage he feels when he catches the sneering glanced shot their way. Or the knowledge that eats him now - that if Haku asked him to stop, or pushed him away, he would, in a heartbeat. He'd fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.


End file.
